


Getting to Know Him

by Oshun



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Havens of Sirion, captive princes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:27:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oshun/pseuds/Oshun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request  from Winterwitch: “ . . . something about Maedhros and Elrond would be lovely, perhaps of the time when one of the two discovers his respect, admiration, or even fondness of the other. Or Maglor and Elrond in the same situation.”</p><p>This is young Elrond's POV in the first hours after Maedhros and Maglor take him and his brother with them from the Havens of Sirion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Getting to Know Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ysilme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ysilme/gifts).



. . . the cruel servants of Celegorm seized his young sons and left them to starve in the forest. Of this Maedhros indeed repented, and sought for them long in the woods of Doriath; but his search was unavailing, and of the fate of Eluréd and Elurín no tale tells. — _The Silmarillion_ , "Of the Ruin of Doriath." 

o0o0o0o0o

For Maglor took pity upon Elros and Elrond, and he cherished them, and love grew after between them, as little might be thought. — _The Silmarillion_ , "Of the Voyage of Eärendil and the War of Wrath."

o0o0o0o0o

The misting rain had stopped and the sky cleared of the remaining clouds. A crescent moon faintly lit the trail in front of us. A short while earlier, Elros had finally stopped sniffling. I would have choked before I would let them hear me cry. 

The dark-haired one with the melodious voice spoke. "We have come far enough by now that it is safe to stop and rest. Those at the back are beginning to straggle. Surely that’s dangerous for them and for us."

The rider who carried me in front of him on his saddle, the stern, beautiful one with the mass of wild red hair, replied, "Perhaps they wish they had stayed behind at the Havens with the deserters. They are free to leave if that is what they want. Less than ever we need no reluctant followers."

They spoke their own language, but I could understand most of what they said. It was close enough to the tongue of my father's people for me to puzzle it out if I listened carefully. Not for the first time, I was glad I took learning my letters seriously and listened to my tutors.

"I doubt they would come as far as this if they did not intend to stay with us." He opened his cloak and looked down at Elros' head lolling against his chest, eyes closed. "Mine is asleep, but he can’t be comfortable. We need a fire. They need warm food and dry clothing. Is your babe still awake?" 

I do not know where my nerve came from, but I could not control my anger and irritation. Babes indeed! We were princes of both Menegroth and Gondolin. Even then, young as I was, I suspected that unprotected princes of fallen cities were unlikely to hold much power in the wide world. I had heard enough stories, true ones and make-believe, to know that much. Earlier that day we had been princes and sons, and before nightfall, we had become probably orphans and captives for sure. The idea only made my resentment stronger. 

"He is called Elros," I snapped without even having to search my memory for the grammar. Sometimes languages work that way—if one feels strongly enough, one finds the words.

"Ah, this one speaks Gondolinian,” my Feanorian said, “and is clever enough to understand us. So watch what you say, Macalaurë.” He gave a rough, derisive laugh, totally lacking in humor, but containing a measure of surprise. It was as though he had just heard a monkey speak. “And what is your name, little one?” he said, his voice softening.

“Elrond Eärendilion.” I announced in the biggest voice I could muster. It was pathetically small and woefully high-pitched.

The darker one chuckled in apparent approval. The red-head said, “Ah. I take it you are the elder of the two of you, Master Elrond.”

“We are same age. He was born but minutes before me. So, he is considered older. And the good one. I’m nothing but trouble.” I leaned out from his chest, turning to scowl up at him.

“That makes perfect sense. I see my luck is holding. My brother gets the well-behaved tractable one and I get more trouble.” The two Feanorians grunted together in a private understanding—another almost-laugh. “You may call me Maedhros and my brother Maglor. He’s going to keep you safe, until we decide to offer you to your kinsman the king. Unless his men find us first.”

“So, are we your prisoners, kinslayer?” I asked. I had more courage than brains in those days.

Then he actually did laugh. “The term ‘prisoner’ sounds too harsh. Perhaps no one told you, but you are our kinsmen as well. You will be better fed and clothed than anyone else among us. Macalaurë will see to that. Think of yourselves as fosterlings for now.”


End file.
